


You Are a Drama Queen!

by DoctorRainyStardusttheThird (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson and Donovan are idiots, Coffee, Humour, Other, Post-Reichenbach, Reporters, Scotland Yard finds out, Sherlock comes back, Windows - Freeform, can't stop tagging, sherlock is ALIVE?, surprise for the yarders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-14 03:51:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15380043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DoctorRainyStardusttheThird
Summary: This is my take on how Sherlock should've returned from the dead.Screeching up to Scotland Yard on a motorbike accompanied by a horde of reporters.Poor Lestrade really should've seen this coming.





	You Are a Drama Queen!

**Author's Note:**

> quick one-shot on how i think sherlock should've returned from the dead. it's just...more awesome this way :)
> 
> hope you like xx

It had been a long day of paperwork. Twenty officers and scientists sat hunched over their laptops and files. Lestrade sighed and accepted his third coffee from Dimmock. They were still no closer to finding any leads. He wished – as he always did, when there was a difficult case – that Sherlock was here to solve it, but he was dead. Three years now.

To his side, he heard Donovan sigh dramatically. Anderson shot her an evil look. Those two had bickered again, clearly.

Heads lifted as a commotion was heard outside. A yelling, and a loud screeching of brakes.

Donovan shrugged at Lestrade. The detective inspector prayed it wasn’t the press.

The noise came closer, and the Yarders could hear a single set of hurried footsteps, nearing the door.

‘What now?’ Lestrade huffed, as the door banged open, but his lecture died in his throat.

The figure in the door spoke. ‘Lestrade,’ Sherlock Holmes said, ‘Uh – I need your help.’

Sherlock Holmes.

The man himself.

In the doorway.

Looking, if Lestrade was frank, like hell. He’d lost an unhealthy amount of weight, his cheekbones more prominent than ever and his eyes hollow. He wore his trusty Belstaff coat, cracked Doc Martens, jeans and a t-shirt, and his dark curls were mussed, like he’d been running his hands through them.

He was also holding a motorcycle helmet under one arm.

Sherlock coughed awkwardly. Lestrade realised the entire room had been silent for at least ten seconds. You could hear a pin drop.

Finally, Donovan spoke. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘You’re _alive?’_ Anderson croaked.

Everyone else was speechless.

Sherlock looked down at himself. ‘I suppose so,’ he shrugged.

Lestrade found his voice at last. He needed a cigarette. ‘You bastard.’

He really should’ve seen this coming.

Sherlock looked apologetic for a moment. Lestrade noticed a bruise shadowing his left eye. His eyes – exactly as he remembered. Cerulean, shot through with gold. A little manic.

‘I really am sorry about dying, Lestrade, but I have …some more pressing matters to be dealing with right now.’

Donovan strode up to him and slapped him round the face. Lestrade drained his coffee in one.

‘You are an arsehole!’ she yelled. ‘What the – I can’t –‘

‘Lestrade,’ Sherlock said, moving past Donovan as if she were inconsequential. ‘I know there’s a lot to explain. But –‘ he looked behind him nervously. The commotion outside was growing in volume. ‘Basically, I’ve been in London for a month –‘

‘And you didn’t think to drop by?’ Lestrade shouted, more out of exasperation than anything else. He looped an arm round Sherlock’s neck and hugged him tightly. His narrow shoulders were bonier than he remembered. He felt Sherlock flinch under his touch, and pulled back. ‘You alright?’

‘Fine,’ Sherlock muttered. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Lestrade, but I haven’t had the chance. John knows, and Mary and Molly, Mrs Hudson and Mycroft – I was going to tell you next but – uh – it got complicated.’

Anderson pushed aside the blind. People were converging on the Yard, barely being held off by the policemen. People with cameras – and notebooks, and cabs…Oh.

Sherlock was explaining, lighting-fast. God, Lestrade had even missed the way he spoke at dizzying speed.

‘Mycroft informed the government a couple of weeks ago and it must’ve somehow leaked to the press – I was going to hide but I realised I hadn’t told you I was alive, and I didn’t really want you to find out from the evening news –‘

‘Psychopath’s showing an ounce of compassion, what on earth happened while you were putting your friends through hell?’ Donovan spat.

‘Just like old times, Donovan,’ Sherlock smiled casually.

‘You’re going to have to go out and talk to them at some point,’ Lestrade pointed out. The press were practically beating down the doors.

 _A cigarette_ , Lestrade thought, _and a fourth coffee._

Sherlock was looking thoughtfully at the window. ‘Second floor, right?’ he said. ‘Do you think I could jump?’

_Three sugars._

‘No, Sherlock,’ Lestrade sighed. Why had he missed this man again?

‘I can’t talk to them.’

‘Why not? You were a minor celebrity – still are – they’ll want to know where you’ve _been.’_

‘Where have you been?’ Anderson said. ‘Freak,’ he added as an afterthought.

The room was in chaos. The other officers were on their phones, their laptops – no doubt tweeting and messaging and generally spreading the news as far as it would go – but they all froze at Anderson’s question.

‘That’s very classified,’ Sherlock said. ‘Undercover. Around the world. Taking down Moriarty’s terrorist network. You remember Moriarty?’

Anderson nodded dumbly, for once not objecting to Sherlock speaking to him like a child.

‘It took less time than I expected. Had a bit of help from the secret service. Is there a fire escape?’

‘Sherlock!’

Sherlock spun round and saw Lestrade was holding a deerstalker out at him. Smiling. ‘I kept it,’ he said, ‘for old times’ sake.’

Sherlock snatched it off him, pouting like a little kid.

‘How did you get here?’ Lestrade said.

Sherlock held up the motorcycle helmet. ‘Bike,’ he said. ‘Press are all over it, though.’

Several officers burst into the room. They’re eyes were wild with shock as they stared at Sherlock. ‘Detective Inspector,’ the nearest one choked out. ‘They’re asking for him.’

Sherlock straightened his cuffs. He spun the hat on his hand. ‘I suppose I must,’ he said, with a long-suffering sigh.

He turned out of the room, Lestrade, Dimmock, Anderson and Donovan hot on his heels.

‘So,’ Lestrade panted, hurrying to keep up with Sherlock’s long strides. ‘Who gave you the shiner?’

‘John.’

Donovan snorted.

Sherlock paused outside the main doors. ‘You know what, I’d take the assassins and the terrorists over this any day.’

Lestrade halted the other Yarders’ questions with a glare. They’d find out later.

Sherlock flung open the doors, striking a dramatic pose, and was immediately engulfed in paparazzi.

‘Mr Holmes, how did you do it? How did you survive?’

‘Where have you been?’

‘Who knew about the faked suicide?’

‘Is this the doing of James Moriarty? Is James Moriarty confirmed dead?’

Sherlock strolled calmly through the sea of press, almost yawning. Lestrade laughed, watching him.

His expression was almost bored. He swung himself onto his motorbike, despite the cameras being shoved into his face, and put on his helmet.

He revved the engine, giving the reporters the finger. They dived out of the way as Sherlock disappeared in a cloud of dust – gone, again.

Lestrade leaned against the doorway – exhausted, but smiling. He couldn’t help it.

Sherlock Holmes was back.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you liked it :)
> 
> comments, kudos and prompts are welcome xx


End file.
